- Vol. 04
- Chapter 05
A water cure
Her lace parasol soft-shades the boat; The gentleman of leisure trails his coat. He thinks himself the cure, the antidote
To summer’s tedium, the trap of her days, Their monotone white heat, their sad blaze Of hours dispatched in various small ways.
Finger to forearm, she cools a limb during His languid lecture on some theme so boring That her screaming urge, she senses, is returning –
But forth he bores. Braced to make some response, She’s dipped a hand for coolness. The truth shocks: It’s him she’s doomed to marry. (Him she mocks
When he’s not there, and even to his face. Not that he sees, of course. It’s such a waste.) Edwardian fingers dream, submerged in space,
Doomed explorers of a domestic deep. Minutes crawl; perfunctory willows weep. The oars yank in time to a loving speech.
He thinks himself the cure, the antidote: A fellow well equipped with hat and coat. She spreads her hand. The future fills the boat.